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Authors: Roy Hattersley
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has done it each morning for
the last week and, although it does not hurt, I still don’t expect it so it always gives me a nasty shock and I gently subside
back onto the carpet. His blows are absolutely indiscriminate. If he is reading the
Guardian,
he hits me with the
Guardian.
If he has
The Times
in his hand, I get
The Times.
He calls it the up-market deterrent. This morning it was the
Daily Mirror.
He said I had been subject to the ultimate humiliation.
October 10, 1996—Derbyshire
Today the Man took even longer than usual to get ready for our walk. He was late getting up. So I was bursting from the moment
that he woke me. I waited patiently enough while he put on the usual seven or eight layers of clothes. Watching him lace up
his walking boots (which always takes about an hour) was more difficult to endure calmly—particularly since they are an affectation
and totally unnecessary for the couple of mileswe stroll across fields. I knew that, even when he had struggled into the overcoat with the belt I chewed, there would still
be a long delay while he searched for the long lead, the short lead, his keys and his cell phone, all of which would be hidden
in different parts of the house. Why he does not put them in the same place every night, I shall never know. Then, as usual,
before we got as far as the door, he remembered that he had to go back into the kitchen and get a plastic bag and biscuits
to give me when the bag was filled. I gritted my teeth and tried to think of something else.
It was raining, so, after a single step into the yard, he decided he needed a hat. Then he thought it prudent to change from
the top coat with the belt I chewed into the waterproof jacket with the pocket I tore. That, he quickly decided, would expose
his legs to the storm. He went back for his long trenchcoat. By the time he had fastened all the complicated buckles and belts,
the rain had got much worse. So he unlaced his boots and put his Wellingtons on instead. I just sat there until I was quite
sure he was ready. Then I was so happy to be on the move that I got the lead wrapped round my legs. “Buster,” he said, “you
are a terrible nuisance in the mornings.” I put it down tohis embarrassment at the unfairness of it all. I have no shoes and one suit which I wear night and day, summer and winter.
He has so many clothes that it takes him an hour to get ready for our morning walk. And he says I am a nuisance! My only consolation
is that my one suit looks so good on me.
October 21, 1996—London
We are facing a communications crisis. It is not my fault. He reads all those books and newspaper articles about how to look
after me, but, although we have lived together for months, he still does not give me clear and consistent instructions. I
am not sure how hard he tries. Whoever is to blame, I’m the one who always gets into trouble. Sometimes I think he expects
me to read his mind.
I want to do what pleases him—particularly since pleasing him is usually followed by a biscuit—but I need to know what he
wants. Take, for example, “jumping up”—when I assume the heraldic position of Buster Rampant (which is more or less what I
am at the time) and scratch at him with my front paws. Unfortunately,he is never able to make up his mind whether or not he likes it. All I can be sure of is that he does not find it much fun
when he is wearing his pyjamas. Fully dressed, he has been known to take my paws in his hands and cry, “Shall we dance? One,
two, three. Look! I’m Yul Brynner and Buster is Deborah Kerr.” No sooner am I vertical than he begins to rub behind my ears,
scratch my stomach and (when nobody is looking) lean down so that I can lick his face. But at other times, he either sways
out of my path so my front paws hit the floor with a thump, or just shouts at me. It is all very disturbing. A dog needs certainty.
November 1, 1996
Living with someone who cannot decide what
the last week and, although it does not hurt, I still don’t expect it so it always gives me a nasty shock and I gently subside
back onto the carpet. His blows are absolutely indiscriminate. If he is reading the
Guardian,
he hits me with the
Guardian.
If he has
The Times
in his hand, I get
The Times.
He calls it the up-market deterrent. This morning it was the
Daily Mirror.
He said I had been subject to the ultimate humiliation.
October 10, 1996—Derbyshire
Today the Man took even longer than usual to get ready for our walk. He was late getting up. So I was bursting from the moment
that he woke me. I waited patiently enough while he put on the usual seven or eight layers of clothes. Watching him lace up
his walking boots (which always takes about an hour) was more difficult to endure calmly—particularly since they are an affectation
and totally unnecessary for the couple of mileswe stroll across fields. I knew that, even when he had struggled into the overcoat with the belt I chewed, there would still
be a long delay while he searched for the long lead, the short lead, his keys and his cell phone, all of which would be hidden
in different parts of the house. Why he does not put them in the same place every night, I shall never know. Then, as usual,
before we got as far as the door, he remembered that he had to go back into the kitchen and get a plastic bag and biscuits
to give me when the bag was filled. I gritted my teeth and tried to think of something else.
It was raining, so, after a single step into the yard, he decided he needed a hat. Then he thought it prudent to change from
the top coat with the belt I chewed into the waterproof jacket with the pocket I tore. That, he quickly decided, would expose
his legs to the storm. He went back for his long trenchcoat. By the time he had fastened all the complicated buckles and belts,
the rain had got much worse. So he unlaced his boots and put his Wellingtons on instead. I just sat there until I was quite
sure he was ready. Then I was so happy to be on the move that I got the lead wrapped round my legs. “Buster,” he said, “you
are a terrible nuisance in the mornings.” I put it down tohis embarrassment at the unfairness of it all. I have no shoes and one suit which I wear night and day, summer and winter.
He has so many clothes that it takes him an hour to get ready for our morning walk. And he says I am a nuisance! My only consolation
is that my one suit looks so good on me.
October 21, 1996—London
We are facing a communications crisis. It is not my fault. He reads all those books and newspaper articles about how to look
after me, but, although we have lived together for months, he still does not give me clear and consistent instructions. I
am not sure how hard he tries. Whoever is to blame, I’m the one who always gets into trouble. Sometimes I think he expects
me to read his mind.
I want to do what pleases him—particularly since pleasing him is usually followed by a biscuit—but I need to know what he
wants. Take, for example, “jumping up”—when I assume the heraldic position of Buster Rampant (which is more or less what I
am at the time) and scratch at him with my front paws. Unfortunately,he is never able to make up his mind whether or not he likes it. All I can be sure of is that he does not find it much fun
when he is wearing his pyjamas. Fully dressed, he has been known to take my paws in his hands and cry, “Shall we dance? One,
two, three. Look! I’m Yul Brynner and Buster is Deborah Kerr.” No sooner am I vertical than he begins to rub behind my ears,
scratch my stomach and (when nobody is looking) lean down so that I can lick his face. But at other times, he either sways
out of my path so my front paws hit the floor with a thump, or just shouts at me. It is all very disturbing. A dog needs certainty.
November 1, 1996
Living with someone who cannot decide what
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